Free A Slip In Time by Kathleen Kirkwood Page B

matter? Was this someone’s sorry idea of a
jest, knowing of his long imprisonment in London’s
Tower?
    Yet something set ill here. Three
times now, the golden-haired lass had appeared, seemingly out of
nowhere. And what of her clothes? — odd to be sure, especially the
figure-hugging gown she had worn this afternoon, flaunting her
bewitching curves. It surprised him that his men did not line up to
win her favors or do worse.
    Yet therein lay another
puzzle. ‘Twas perturbing enough the girl had vanished before his
eyes, but ‘twould seem he was the only one in the hall to have seen
her. Dhia, there
was much to explain here.
    “I repeat. Who are ye, lass? Who sent
ye?’
    “I — I am Julia Hargrove,” Julia
stammered beneath the Scotsman’s penetrating stare. “I am a guest
of . . . of the Laird of Dunraven Castle.”
    Let him challenge
that, she thought, her confidence
returning. She might be Lord Eaton’s guest, but she was indirectly
Lord Muir’s as well.
    The Scotsman leaned
forward, bracing his arms on either side of Julia and trapping her
against the headboard. “Tell me how tha’ can be, lass, when I am Laird o’ Dunraven
and hae ne’er set eyes on ye afore?”
    Julia’s eyes
widened. “You are
Lord Muir? But, I understood you to be aged — seventy years or
more.”
    “I know no’ this `Lord Muir’ and as ye
can see I am far from aged — nine-and-twenty years tae be exact.
Now explain yersel’. D’ye think tae plant yersel’ in my bed and
seduce me tae some end?”
    “Seduce?” Julia’s voice vaulted several notches higher. Her
temper flamed at such gall, overriding her shock. “That is
outrageous!”
    The Scotsman’s lips pulled into a hard
smile. “And yet here ye be, waitin’ in yer finery.” He ripped the
covers from her fingers, exposing her nightgown and her bare legs
where the fabric bunched at her knees. “I am wonderin’ why ye
bother wi’ it a’tall for ‘tis plain ye wear no’ a stitch beneath.”
His gaze fell to where the soft roundness of her breasts rose and
fell against the thin fabric of her gown.
    Julia’s mouth opened and
closed several times before she could speak. “This, sir, is my
nightgown. I was
sleeping ,” she
grit out, yanking the covers from his hands to shield her breasts.
She rose on her knees, her anger multiplying. “I told you. I am a guest
here, in particular of Roger Dunnington, Lord Eaton, and, in turn,
of his uncle, Lord Muir, the Twenty-seventh Laird of Dunraven
Castle.”
    The Scotsman’s eyes narrowed
dangerously. “The de’il ye are.”
    “You call me a liar?”
    “Aye, tha’ I do. For how
can ye be the guest o’ the twenty-seventh laird when I myself am
the third.”
    “The third?”
    “Aye, the third.”
    “Laird? Of Dunraven
Castle?”
    “So I said. Are ye deaf or daff? I am
Rae Mackinnon, Third Laird o’ Dunraven Castle in the year o’ Our
Lord, fourteen hundred and thirty-seven.”
    Julia’s jaw dropped, her breath
deserting her. She struggled to regain herself and snapped her
mouth shut.
    “You, sir, are the liar. Or a lunatic.
What game do you play, stealing into my chamber in the midst of the
night, compromising my reputation? Do you play me for a fool?
Fourteen hundred and thirty-seven indeed,” she huffed. “The year
is eighteen hundred and ninety-three!”
    “Enough!” He grabbed her
arms and pulled her against his chest. “Who are ye, sassenach? Who d’ye
serve and for wha’ gain? Did the English send ye? Or another clan,
holdin’ hands across the border, or mayhap here at home wi’ those
who would control the king?”
    “King? What are you talking about?
Victoria is Queen.”
    The Scotsman scoffed outright. “James
is but a bairn o’ six. He has no queen.”
    “James?”
    “Aye, James, Scotland’s wee
king.”
    Julia began to declare Scotland had no
king of any size or age. But the look in the Scotsman’s eyes gave
her pause, a look that told her he believed every word he spoke.
She felt the